Exitus Acta Probat
by Kohiru
Summary: 'He knew that the world needed heroes, examples of honour and bravery to inspire what was left of humanity. He just never thought he'd become one.' Arcade's journey with the Courier is intense and far from what he had expected. Romance later.
1. First Encounters

Hey there fellow Fallout fans!

I'm rather nervous about this. My first ever attempt at fanfiction! Ugh feels like a hoard of bark scorpions scuttling about in my stomach. Anyway, seeing as I am in essence, a little pathetic newbie at this, I'm very open to suggestions and advice!

I know this isn't much and it doesn't even set the scene very well but things get better in the next chapter. I think so anyway. I don't even know, haha.  
>Speaking of which, I'm hoping to have the next chapter or two up before next Wednesday.<p>

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><p>It wasn't love at first sight. Arcade was too much of a realist for something like that. Oh, it was a nice concept alright, but the chances of it being actual love were next to impossible. Love was an emotion that is built up over time, through experience. Perhaps the world they lived in, the desperation to survive every day drove people into making assumptions, to cling to the nicest or what appeared to be the safest soul they could find.<p>

Either way, Arcade didn't believe in such silly motions.

That wasn't to say he wasn't adverse to the idea of _lust_ at first sight. Now that was something that was scientifically plausible and had certainly happened to Arcade on more than one occasion. The latest prime specimen of 'tall, dark and handsome' to wander into the Old Mormon fort had certainly stirred up interest in the scientist. He leant around the corner of the tent he was sitting in, curious as to the commotion; loud barking, a shrill scream and...good Lord was that Julie Farkas _laughing_?  
>As he leant back in the creaky little chair he usually occupied, Arcade briefly wondered if he needed his ears regularly checked as well as his eyes. Julie never laughed. It wasn't often that the woman so much a smiled these days; usually looked tired and haggard and just plain fed up with the state of affairs in Freeside. But that noise, it had been one of joy. Had she snapped? Arcade wouldn't be surprised if she had.<p>

He was startled from his thoughts by a cold, slightly damp nose pressing against the palm of his hand. Blinking down in surprise, he was greeted by a rather adorable set of eyes. "Hello Rex. Not feeling so good boy?" The dog whined, resting its head against Arcade's thigh and huffing. Amused, Arcade scratched the small area around his ears that were still fleshy and furry, wondering why the King had brought him back. It was a shame that the dog was dying, yes, but Julie had told the King before that there wasn't anything she could do for the animal and he had (begrudgingly, Arcade assumed) accepted that.  
>Lost again in his thoughts, Arcade didn't notice the dog nosing into his pocket and carefully biting down around a couple of energy cells before suddenly bolting back out the tent flap. Slapping a hand to his pocket, Arcade almost swore, clambering to his feet to chase the cyberdog down. "Hey! Hey get back here!" Energy cells were hard to get unless you slinked inside the Silver Rush and Arcade wasn't rather fond of doing so. Why the hell had the dog taken them anyway? Its not like the King needed them for anything. Maybe the poor creature was finally going insane.<p>

"What have you there Rexy? Energy Cells?" Arcade stumbled to a halt, at the sight in front of him. The man was almost as tall as himself, bare apart from a very worn down pair of pants from a merc. outfit, crouching down to gently take the ammunition from the dog's mouth and grimacing a little with saliva now coating the tips of his fingers. "Where on Earth did you get these?" He straightened up to his full height and Arcade allowed himself to look with eager eyes, the only excuse he could concoct being _scientific interest. _He wondered briefly if the man was NCR; that was definitely a body sculpted by military training or very extensive travelling and fighting. Scavengers rarely had muscle on the upper body, neither did traders. Strong muscles shifted under tanned skin that was caked with dried blood, dust and grime. Scars cross-crossed over several areas, some neat, obviously surgical whilst others were jagged and wild; battle scars. Arcade let his gaze drift up from a set of narrow hips, over the rather attractive panes of his chest, where he noticed a rather nasty gash going from collar bone to about mid-abdomen, before moving to his neck, where he promptly stalled. More scars, theses ones obviously from a collar. A slave collar. They were old, much older than the other scars, perhaps as old as the man himself. God did they look painful, the scar tissue like small gorges, deep and appearing rough like bark. Now with a slight frown, Arcade returned to his curious examination, moving up to the sharp angles of the stranger's face. Light coating of dark stubble around his jaw, a crooked nose (obviously broken a fair few times) and a set of...oh my. A set of incredibly blue eyes staring at him with an expression that could only be called intense. If Arcade were a lesser man, he would have probably felt a little weak at the knees. A very well kept pre-war hat sat atop a head of what appeared to be dark brown hair. "Are these yours?"

"What? Uh, ah...um, yes." _Well done Arcade. You sounded as articulate as a dying radroach. _Clearing his throat, Arcade took a step forward, holding out his hand and trying his best to smile charmingly. "Arcade Gannon, I...ew." Though not exactly pleased that he didn't get any further than merely stating his name, Arcade was rather pleased he had his Energy Cells back. Though he would have rather them without the dog spit. But he couldn't complain, not when this stranger was looking at him like a wounded animal, eyes wide and looking rather sad before suddenly beginning to speak quickly in a gravelly voice. "I'm so sorry! I've only just started teaching Rex how to search for ammo, and I probably should have told him taking it from other people is bad. I'm really sorry, here take this to make up for it and for the uh... the slobber." Rummaging in the pack at his feet the stranger pulled out a neatly wrapped bundle of...something. It was oozing whatever the hell it was and Arcade wasn't too sure if he was willing to accept something dripping with...was that _blood_?  
>Seeing Arcade's worried expression, the stranger chuckled and shook his head. "It's Brahmin meat. I'll cook it and come back with steak if you'd rather." Visibly relaxing now he knew what it was, Arcade slipped the Energy Cells into his pocket (grumbling quietly to himself at how damp they were) and politely took the packages. "Share them about or keep them to yourself whatever suits you." He grinned, a flash of white teeth and Arcade was momentarily stunned by how feral yet attractive the expression looked upon this man. "Well, I need to go pester Julie into cleaning me up. Can't put a shirt on until this it sorted. Come on Rex!" He turned around, picking up the pack in one hand and gesturing for Rex to follow with the other. Arcade watched on, still holding the wonderfully fresh smelling Brahmin meat in his hands as he ducked into a tent with Julie.<p>

What a strange encounter.

That man was...it was hard to explain. He wasn't one solid thing, seemed to have rotated through a series personalities in a matter of seconds. He was child-like, seemed rather cheerful and confident but there was something about him, something about the way he held himself and in those eyes that was...frightening, to be honest. It was almost wild, the same feeling you get when seeing a wild dog lope past. It looked interesting enough, and it probably wouldn't hurt you as long as you left it alone, but the uncertain danger was still there, the possibility for it to turn around and suddenly go for the jugular. Such a combination of traits never usually spelled good news for other people. These sorts of people usually ended up falling apart at the seams of the mind and they tended to try and drag others with them down into the pit of insanity.

He may have been nice to look at but with a conclusion like that, Arcade was happy to admit that he wasn't upset the stranger was gone.

If asked then at that exact moment in time whether Arcade thought he'd ever end up falling in love with such a man, he would have snorted and waved a dismissive hand. No no, of course, not. Sure he was nice to look at, but looks certainly weren't everything (though they did help). This man was too... too fluctuating, too strange and far too _intense_. The handsome ones are always insane or dangerous or both.

Funny how things turn out.


	2. Oh Hello Mr Machete

So here's the second chapter, a day later.

And I have reviews! I'm so happy, thank you very much my fabulous reviewers and anyone who has taken the time to read this. I appreciate it, I really do!

As you'll see at some points in here, I've taken some liberties with Arcade's speech options (you know, what he says when you first meet him and such). I've just swapped a few things around, not much. Still relatively similar to what he originally says. Hope no one minds too much.

**I forgot last time to include a disclaimer. Whoops! Here you go: I don't own _Fallout: New Vegas_ or any of its named characters, items, places, factions, etc. What I do own is my crazy Courier and that's about it really. Such a shame, I would love to have a Legion at my disposal...**

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><p>He saw the stranger again, a few days later (or was it weeks? Arcade had given up following the traditional units of time, instead sticking to just taking things day by day). He'd learnt most of the stranger's story from Julie and the occasional gossiping gambler that passed through. The suddenly famed Courier, brought back from the dead by the sheer want for vengeance, mowing down pretty much anyone in his path, though he seemed to stay civil with the NCR at the very least. Always sighted alone, his only companion a set of well-maintained guns and a particularly worn machete that was rumoured to be pulled from his own chest. He was viewed as almost saintly though, known for giving away meds to the Followers, sharing food and water with strangers around Freeside and the Wastes and it was even rumoured that he would bury anyone he found dead during his travels, after making sure there was no hope for them.<br>He had thought there was something not quite right with the man and now Arcade could figure out why. Not many people were quite right after being shot in the head.

He hadn't expected to see him again after that meeting though.

When wasting time pretending to watch over unconscious patients, Arcade would occasionally immerse himself in one of the few intact pre-war books the Old Mormon Fort had to offer. He'd read them all through several times by now, but still there was some strange instinctive joy about feeling the paper between his fingertips, seeing the words printed finely upon the pages, the type still rather bold despite the years and he'd find himself immersed in pre-war information.

People came and went often, popping into tents searching for things or people, though very rarely was anyone looking for himself. So he never looked up when he felt a presences beside him, continuing to read and stay focused in his own little world. Of course, things would probably have been a whole lot less embarrassing if he had paid more attention to his surroundings, especially on that particular day.

"You like to read?"

Letting out a rather pathetic squeak of surprise, Arcade's startled hands fumbled the book, letting it tumble from his grip. Instinct took over then and still bumbling, he tried uselessly to grab at the book but only grasping at air as the book hit his knee then went flying towards the dusty ground.  
>But it never hit the floor. Instead, it was caught on a booted foot and kicked back up into the air where pip-boy covered hand snatched it from in front of Arcade's face.<p>

"'_The Sociology of Post-Colonial Societies : Economic Disparity, Cultural Diversity and Development',_" the Courier read out loud with slow, deliberate pronunciations, squinting at the words and stalling temporarily at 'disparity'. Arcade stared up at him, before pushing his glasses into a more comfortable position on his nose and beginning to pout.

"Yes. Contrary to the belief of most people in these Wastelands, it is actually a rather good read." He muttered, smoothing out the creases around the lapels of his lab coat. "I would like it back, if you don't mind."

Looking rather amused, the Courier held the book back out to Arcade who took it without a word and tried to find his place again. There was silence for quite a while, Arcade attempting to read whilst the strange man just stood next to him, hands clasped behind his back as he stared around the room. Strangely, after a while, the atmosphere and unimposing presence was almost relaxing, allowing Arcade to pick up where he had left off. Or, so he thought.

"So what do you do here?"

With a soft sigh, he folded the corner of the page over and set the book down on the small table next to him, leaning back in the chair to regard the Courier with a curious gaze. The man didn't look quite as insane today, dressed in a neat pre-war business suit, eyes inquisitive but not overbearing as they had been during their previous encounter. "I'm a just a researcher. Not even a very good one at that."

Despite his attempt to give an uninformative, uninteresting answer, the Courier's interested seemed to spark even more. "Oh? What kind of research?" It was innocent enough, and he sounded genuinely curious, those dangerous blue eyes looking at him with the eagerness of a child, so with a shrug of his shoulders, Arcade began to talk, explaining the need to find alternative sources of medicine, answering when the Courier asked questions. It was a relaxed and casual affair until Arcade made the mistake of slipping out some Latin.

Although he knew it was impossible Arcade swore the temperature of the room dropped by a good few degrees in a mere matter of seconds. Before he had a chance to blink, a rusting blade was pressed against his throat. _'Oh hello, Mr. Machete'_. The Courier was looming over him with venom in his gaze, eyes wild and dangerous and very, very frightening. "Was that the language of Caesar's Legion?"  
>Ah. So he had issues with the Legion. That would explain a few things; not many people who got away from the Legion alive were just going to go on and lead a peaceful life without holding some sort of grudge.<p>

Speaking with a calm he didn't truly feel inside, Arcade tried to explain. "Caesar can cite Cato to suit his purpose. Many people spoke Latin and some of them were even nice. It's just a shame it's now associated with less than favourable individuals." He felt the pressure of the blade becoming lax, the Courier regarding him with a sceptical look before asking "So where did _you_ learn it?"  
>Sighing, Arcade gently tried to push the blade-holding arm away but the limb wouldn't move. The blade itself was no longer pressing against his skin, but was still hovering close. "Not from the Legion, if that's what you're getting at. Caesar was a Follow once, did you know that? We have an extensive library, but we all draw water from the same old well. Even him."<p>

Silence. It had been pleasant earlier. Now it was almost suffocating and to make things worse that gaze was back, the blue of his eyes sharper than the machete in his hand. The look sent shivers down Arcade's spine though out of fear or something else, he wasn't too sure. Just as he was beginning to wonder if calling for help would be a good idea, the Courier took a step back and hooked the weapon back onto his belt and subsequently slumped onto his rear on the dirty floor, looking rather ashamed. "I'm sorry. I can't be too careful. They have spies everywhere, y'know? Crafty fuckers could be anyone and I don't want..." He dragged a hand over his face then up to his head, pushing the hat back to reveal a messy head of hair and a rather grisly looking scar across his left temple. "And I was starting to like you. Can't like people, can't trust people not out here, but a doctor, a doctor is always safe, mama said so herself. They're alright, they're good people, trustworthy people. They're noble people too, they won't hurt you so if you have to trust someone trust a doctor." He gave a shaky little laugh and rubbed furiously at his hair, frustrated and nervous and so very uncertain. "I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry. I nearly cut your throat, oh god, I'm so sorry Mr. Gannon!"

He wasn't too sure what it was, the saddening way he broke down or the fact he had called him 'Mr. Gannon' _- 'Good God do I really look that old?' - _but Arcade was suddenly crouched on the floor next to the man, a hand hovering awkwardly over his back. He wanted to pat his head like he did Rex, coo at him in a silly voice and tell him it was okay but don't do it again. This person was a child in a man's body. "Don't worry. I tend to forget that not everyone is as comfortable with the language as I am. And you didn't even break skin, so it's okay." No its not okay, but there's no need to freak him out further by letting him know that Arcade came very close to needing a new pair of pants during their little 'encounter'. "And I told you my name is Arcade. I don't think anyone has called me Mr. Gannon for six or seven years now." He gently patted the Courier on the back, an awkward motion in his attempt at being comforting.

With shaky breaths, the Courier stared at the ground between his feet, his body trembling. His gaze was unfocused, his mouth slightly slack and for a moment, Arcade worried that the Courier was in fact a robot and he had pressed some sort of shut down button on his back by trying to comfort him. "Are...are you okay?" Arcade asked uneasily, leaning forward to try and see his face better. _Did I break him? How do I explain that one? "Oh he went insane so I just hit the off switch by patting his back."  
><em> The Courier turned his head slightly, eyes moving to look at Arcade with a soft almost pleading look.

"So..uh... so why are you a researcher and not a medical doctor? Don't like blood?"

Noticing his attempt at steering them to a normal conversation, Arcade decided to take pity on the man and gave him a small grin. "Well, there is that. Not everyone at the Followers is a 'people person'. I don't exactly have the best bedside manner; turns out people are not so fond of witty humour when they're missing a limb." He smiled softly as he heard a soft chuckle from the broken looking man. "Besides, someone has to do it. And cacti are less likely to expel their lunch onto my shoes."

"You're not happy here though." He was leaning back against Arcade's hand now, looking at him with a slight smile. "Why don't you come with me? Save a few lives, scavenge some chems for the Follower's, perhaps kill one of the heads of the Three Families, y'know normal touristy stuff."

Arcade started as he skimmed over his plans for his time in Vegas. Well most of those sounded like noble causes but...  
>"Kill one of the Three Families' heads? I can't say I'm 'game' for that.. Have a reputation to keep you know; the Follower's aren't exactly supportive of assassinations of one of the pillars of New Vegas. May I ask why?" Why meaning a lot of things; why did he divulge such information, why him and why on earth was he considering such a thing?<p>

With an almost fond smile, the Courier gently touched the gruesome scar on his head. "Bastard shot me in the head at point blank range, when my hands were tied and I was on my knees. Like a fucking coward. And as if that weren't enough, he buried me in an unmarked grave. Worst of all though, the bastard took all my stuff, including my memories. I..I remember things, people and places but I don't_ know_ them. I-I don't know how to explain it. I feel like I'm someone else and these memories, these things I know, they don't belong to me." He paused for a moment, letting his hand drop from the scar. "The bastard took my life in every way possible. I'm just a nobody. Well I was." He grinned, not quite the same as he had during their first meeting but still just as unusual, still as frightening when matched with those shocking eyes. "What better way to affirm your suddenly regained life than to make a name for yourself? Going to shoot that fucker in the face as he did to me before letting everyone know what a dick he really is. I'll just bury his reputation instead of his body."

Arcade thought briefly that the punishment should fit the crime - _'__culpae poenae par esto' – _but shook the thought away. He shouldn't condone murder for the purposes of vengeance, even in their world. It is still murder, taking a life without any right and as the old saying goes 'An eye for an eye and the whole world will go blind.' Killing raiders or thugs was a necessity for survival, but waltzing into the Strip with the sole intention of extracting petty revenge was a bit unnecessary and...well, almost counter-productive to the feat of survival. This man was insane to even consider such a thing. He had to be.

"Yes well, enjoy making a name for yourself. It's all fine and dandy as long as you don't end up dead. And I'd rather _not_ end up dead, thank you very much. Can't let a mind like mine go to waste." Arcade responded with a tone that wasn't quite condescending but very close to it. He wanted to remove his hand, but with the Courier leaning most of his weight against it, he couldn't exactly do anything unless he wanted the poor man to smash the back of his head against the iron frame of the bunk bed and he'd be damned if he had to clean up insane Courier blood from the surrounding area. "What are you doing here anyway? No offense, but I doubt you've wandered all the way out here to inquire about what I do and invite me to join your assassination attempt. Was there something in particular you wanted?"

The Courier hummed and abruptly got to his feet, brushing away the dust and dirt that had begun to cling to his suit. "No. Sorry for disturbing you Arcade. And uh...sorry for well...y'know. Holding a machete to your throat and that. I'm normally quite collected, honest." His smile was sheepish and if Arcade were honest, quite endearing. "I'll see you later, perhaps?"

Following his lead, Arcade pushed off his knees and straightened up, wiping his hands against his thighs even though he was sure he hadn't touch anything particularly dirty. It was more of a force of habit than anything. "Perhaps." He responded with a slight smile, slipping his hands into his pockets. The Courier nodded, looking contemplative before ducking outside.

With an exhausted sigh, Arcade picked up his book and was about to slump back into the little seat just as the Courier stuck his head around the corner once more, smiling that worrying smile again. "My name is Logan by the way. In case you were wondering." And then he was gone and Arcade was left to collapse in his chair with spiralling thoughts and no real desire to continue his reading.

He had been right. This man was insane. Or at the very least, dancing on the thing edge of sanity. He was unpredictable and dangerous and good God he was going to get himself killed. How on Earth did he plan to murder one of the most prominent bodies in Vegas society? Poison? Go in guns blazing? Try to kill him in his sleep? Oh dear, this was far too stressful to even think about.  
>The stupid man was going to get himself riddled with more holes than Swiss cheese. (Arcade briefly wondered if anyone still knew what Swiss cheese even was. Were the Swiss even still around?)<p>

But that wasn't the worrying thing.

No, the worrying thing was, Arcade was worrying. So now he was worrying about worrying about the insane Courier who he previously hadn't really thought about any further than the brief examination of his body and personality who didn't seem to be worried about killing the Head of one of the Three Families.

His head was starting to hurt.

Confounding emotions. Should he have gone along? Tried to talk him out of it? Oh no no no, those were bad thoughts. _Don't get involved, Arcade, he's just a crazy traveller, nothing for you to concern yourself about._

Ugh, no, he was involved now wasn't he? He wouldn't give something this much thought unless he was planning on getting involved on some sort of subconscious level.

Arcade liked to think he would continue to live a novel existence, doing his banal research and attempting to make the situation in Freeside a little better, bit by bit without really being recognised for his input into the overall picture. He was just a single cog in the machine, turning in time with the others to keep everything moving.  
>But now he wasn't so sure. Was that really a good way to live his life? He was content here at the Mormon Fort but that didn't mean he was completely happy. And his father wouldn't exactly approve...<p>

No. There was no point in getting caught up in his 'daddy issues' again. He'd gone for so long without dwelling on the past, thought the odd thought of the Remnants came up here and there. He really should visit Daisy and...

This damned Courier. Stirring up his reasonably still mind, creating a tornado of chaotic thoughts that were starting to give him a migraine. Arcade set the book down and got up to retreat to his cot. He needed a nap after all this.


	3. And So It Begins

Hey hey, readers, here's chapter 3! Sorry it took a little while to get out, I'm in the midst of writing an agonizingly dull research report which is amusingly on the psychological aspects of violent video games.

Yay reviewers, you are so delightful. You make my day, really!

**SarahInTheSky;** Thank you very much! That certainly helps calm the nerves I keep feeling every time I update! I'm very flattered that you feel its amazing; I hope I can keep up the quality!

**Thuruby;** Thank you as well! Haha, interesting is certainly one word for what Logan is. We'll be exploring him a little bit more in later chapters so I hope he stays interesting until then! Yes, Arcade never exactly struck me as the sort of person who would meet a stranger and go "Oh hey sure lets go gallivanting around saving lives." He's an intelligent man so I assume he likes to think things through, which is why I tried to build it up. And oh yes getting Rex to fetch. Was I the only one completely gutted by the fact you couldn't coo at the dog with "Good boy!" and ask him to fetch you things? That was one of my favourite things about Dogmeat; running low on ammo? Send him off into the wilderness and wait! Man I miss Dogmeat now...not that I don't like Rex! I just seemed to be more fond of Dogmeat. And not I've gone completely off topic!

Anyway here is the chapter. I'm sadly not above asking for reviews. So please, read and review, let me know something, anything. Am I going to slow? Too fast? In circles?

Also the rating will be increasing to M thanks to the Courier potty mouth and future violence. Just to warn you!

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><p>It was a week later, late at night while Arcade was sitting in front of a set of bubbling flasks and beakers, meticulously slicing up desert vegetation, when the Courier stumbled back into the Old Mormon Fort. The past seven days Arcade had spent grumbling and pretending to read, arguing with himself within his mind as conflicting thoughts swirled constantly, bothering him to no end. He had indulged in a few memories of childhood, one in particular coming to mind, of being told by the adults that he was a prime example of a 'pure human' a true American, his mother looking so happy as she dressed him up in a set of slacks and a dark blue shirt they had found in an abandoned home. They had all smiled that day, weary eyes crinkling at the edges, true happiness even though they were hiding in some decrepit old building that was very likely to collapse around them if one were to sneeze too loudly. Most memories of his younger years were faded and not exactly what one would call 'happy', but that one in particular had always held a fond place in his heart.<p>

He stared at the wall in front of him, smiling in what he could only assume was a goofy way, when the door to his little room was slammed open and the worried face of one of the fellow Follower doctors appeared. "Gannon, Julie needs some disinfectant and a handful of stimpacks right away! She said there'd be some in here and that you'd know where they were and that if you weren't too busy you're to go and help her. She needs all the hands she can get. This guy is bleeding all over the place! Its like...a waterfall. Of blood."

He occasionally forgot he was technically hiding away in the storage cupboard to do his experiments, but never complained. If people needed supplies they came in quietly, occasionally stopping for a little chat and some gossiping then left again. Only in emergencies did they bother him. Something was wrong.

He got to his feet, reaching under the desk to pull out a little box full of conical flasks filled with translucent liquid. The other doctor eagerly took two out before dashing out again. Obviously he had forgotten about the stimpacks. Arcade did not like this; that particular doctor was a little green sure, but he was a meticulous as the rest of them, knew procedures and certainly could remember to grab a few stims. An instinctive feeling of worry began to gnaw at his insides, brewing up unease in his mind as he gathered some stimpacks into his pockets and followed the man out, not too surprised to see one of the tents had been turned into a make-shift operating room.

Yes things were very bad indeed. They rarely performed surgeries in the Mormon Fort, for the simple fact that if someone was injured enough to need surgery, the probably wouldn't survive long enough to pull through, especially with their lack of equipment and resources. It was a shame and one of the main reasons why Arcade was working as best as he could on his projects.

"Alright Julie, I'm here, so what's going o- _oh my god_." He was stunned into silence at the state of the man on the table. The other Follower had been right; there was blood everywhere. On the table, on the ground, on the doctors. The Courier – _his name is Logan_, something at the back of his mind cheerfully reminded - was still conscious, glaring down at the gaping hole in his stomach with gritted teeth. His breath was laboured and from the looks of it, incredibly painful. The discolouration around his ribcage hinted at bruising but Arcade suspected there might be some breaks too considering the state of things. His lip had split open, blood making a little trail through the stubble on his chin and down his neck and there was crusted blood around his nose and above his left eye. His left arm was shaking almost violently, and it took two doctors to hold it still for another to inject a stimpack and begin cleaning the two horrific gnashes across his forearm, located just above his Pip-Boy.

He looked an absolute mess.

"Arcade hand those stimpacks out and get over here. Stop gawking." Julie snapped, injecting some Med-X into the writhing man's uninjured arm before moving over to begin stitching up the wound in his stomach. She looked stressed and for once, rather frightened. From what he had gathered, Julie was growing fond of the Courier; whenever he stopped by he usually brought with him a duffle bag full of meds, water and some food and anything else he thought the Follower's might need. He was considerate and kind and Julie hadn't a clue why Arcade seemed to be convinced that the man needed serious psychological attention.

Arcade did as he was told before rolling up the sleeves of his lab coat and shirt, hovering over Julie's shoulder. She was stitching the wound close; it was too big for the stim to do anything over than staunch the bleeding and aid in the over-all progress of healing. It couldn't close the gap on its own though. "Here Arcade, take over, I'm going to clean up his face."

He took over the suturing process, steady hands working in a methodical manner. _This is routine, easy enough, no need to think too hard Arcade. Why are you feeling so darn anxious? You've stitched up many people before in even worse conditions. How is this any different?_

A voice seemed to laugh in the back of his head. _"Because he's different."_ It replied simply and Arcade had to pause in his actions for a very brief moment. He _was_ different. Whether that was a good different or not had yet to be confirmed in his mind.

He finished with a slight flourish, setting the tools to the side upon the metallic tray before stepping aside so someone considerably less bloody could dress and bandage the wound. Washing his hands with some of the left over disinfectant, Arcade glanced up to see how the rest of the patient –_ Logan_, his mind reminded, _the Courier. Not an unnamed patient, not some Freeside junkie. Logan _- was healing. The gnashes on his arm were closing over with the aid of the stim and the help from the doctors who were pinching the skin together so it would heal over quicker. The wounds on his face also fading, though a couple of doctors were still scrubbing the blood off and examining the head wound, mumbling in serious tones to each other. With his history, it wasn't always a good idea to use a stim to heal something like that. Heads were funny things, troublesome at the best of times as Arcade was starting to learn.

The Courier seemed to have finally succumbed to a morphine-induced stupor (Arcade would later over-hear one of the other doctors exclaiming in awe that it took nearly six doses to knock him out) and he looked almost...peaceful.

"Right. Keep an eye on him, he lost a lot of blood. Most of it over us, sadly, but he's alive now. Let's keep it that way." Julie began ordering; shooing most of the doctors out with orders to get clean and change their clothes whilst setting up a blood bag and IV into Logan's right hand with a butterfly needle. She kept Arcade and a couple of the more experience Followers behind by calling them back as they headed towards the tent flap. "His resistance to Med-X can only come from prolonged use. When he wakes and if he's ready for food, try to slip him some Fixer. If you want to confront him about it you may, but I won't. I...I feel I owe him that much. Now one of you is going to have to watch him, make sure he doesn't rip that IV out. "

After she left, the small group stood there staring at the tent flap, lost in their own thoughts until one Follower clapped his hands together and looked upon the others with a slight grin. "So, who should keep watch?" Before Arcade even got a chance to blend in with the furniture, all eyes were upon him and the unanimous decision was made. Arcade Gannon could afford to sit by the Courier's bedside until he woke and he could also be the one to try and slip him some Fixer. He snorted at that thought; like this man wouldn't notice some anti-addiction pills in his food. They were courteous enough to hep Arcade move the man – he weighed about as much as a small Brahmin, Arcade noted as he grunted in exertion whilst hauling the prone body across the tent – before disappearing.

He left the tent himself only briefly to pick up a book and change his shirt, before settling himself down for what he hoped would be an interesting read. Even if he had read this book four times now and even if his mind was buzzing, the storm of thoughts whirling up once again though this time they focused less on his past and more on his possible future and whether or not said future would involve the man unconscious on the bed.

Fighting against those troublesome rising thoughts, Arcade forced his eyes across the page, focusing far too hard to take in each word, each letter. "This is useless." He muttered to himself, closing the book and setting it across his lap, hands clasped atop of it. He stared down at Logan with a furrow in his brow – they'd only met twice, so why had this man made such an impression?

_Because he held a machete to your throat_, his thoughts helpfully intoned, _and because he has frighteningly captivating eyes. Yes, _Arcade decided,_ I'm a sucker for a man with blue eyes and a possible psychotic condition_. Even if those eyes could look as cold as the Arctic tundra ('Did that still exist?' He briefly wondered) there was still something about them that drew Arcade in and seemed to negate all the possible negative aspects of this strange, strange man.

Arcade sighed softly, glancing at the steadily draining blood pack before leaning back in his chair, plucking the glasses from his face and tucking them into the pocket of his lab coat. It was late but the Mormon Fort was still bustling with activity, hurried footsteps muffled by the canvas walls. It was a slight comfort, to hear the noise but not really feel a part of it. He liked being back from the chaos, liked to stand back and observe with a cautious eye, making decisions, clearing up assumptions by looking for the answers rather than getting involved. You can still find answers without throwing yourself head first into the disorder, you just had to be critical about things.

Although he hadn't found any answers to his assumptions from merely observing in the case of Logan the Courier. The man was like two different people; his reputation a separate entity from Logan himself. Perhaps it was to do with what he was known as; perhaps Arcade had met Logan the man, while everyone seemed to meet The Heroic Courier, saviour of the Mojave and scourge of all evil-doers upon the land. He was like one of those pre-war superheroes in the comic books Arcade had found in the Follower's achieves whilst searching for more books to read. What would his superhero name be? The Courier sounded fitting as it was, now that he thought about it. Thank goodness he didn't have a gaudy costume made of brightly coloured spandex. That would be a sight.

Arcade's eyes begun to slip close and he felt himself begin to drift off to sleep with a slight smirk upon his face. He had no doubts that his dreams would be filled with spandex-wearing Couriers, bloody waterfalls and cacti. Because his dreams always had cacti in them, he usually dreamt of blood after having to perform something remotely medical and well...who wouldn't want to dream of a heroic Courier saving the day?

* * *

><p>Not for the first time, Arcade awoke with a jolt, his whole body starting with tense muscles and a rush of adrenaline. What the hell had startled him? He couldn't remember his dream, and there wasn't any immediate danger from what his instincts could tell.<p>

He glanced about and sighed with exasperation as he saw Logan struggling to sit up, poking at his bandaged stomach whilst his eyes darted from the wound to his Pip-Boy that now showed a body with a sad face. "Ugh, I feel like shit." He muttered, gruff voice sounding even worse, like his throat had been rubbed raw with sandpaper.

"You'll feel worse if you keep prodding it like that." Arcade replied as he put on his glasses and set the book on his lap aside. "Any distinct areas of pain troubling you?" He shuffled his chair closer to the bed, gently pulling the other man's arms away from their curious exploration of his worst injury. Logan seemed to think, rolling his shoulders and wriggling about to make his spine pop.

"Nah," he finally replied, smile spreading upon his face as he realised just who was keeping watch over him. "I've had worse. This is nothing." He waved his hand airily before yelping and looking down at it, paling as he saw the butterfly needle. "How fucked up am I then, doc?"

_Mentally? To a frightening extent,_ Arcade thought instantly but thanked his mind for having enough sense to not send such words to his mouth. "You'll be fine. A bit of blood loss, but nothing fatal. It looked worse than it was." Although it had looked pretty bad. Like a Super Mutant's gore bag has exploded over most of the Follower's doctors. "Well you'll be fine if you stop poking that." He snapped as the infuriating man began to dance his fingers across the bandages again, putting pressure in certain areas and wincing as a result. He grinned up at Arcade, letting his hand slip away from his abdomen to rest at his side once again.

"So Arcade, listen to the radio? There seems to be a story on everyone's mind at the moment." He was practically glowing with smug pride and Arcade could only guess why. He had managed to kill his would-be murderer. Was that why he had fallen through the large doors of the Old Mormon Fort bleeding his guts out? No they liked bullets on the Strip, and he wouldn't have been able to make it all the way through Freeside in that state. "Benny was a dick though, just as I remembered. Looks like he was planning on taking over Vegas with a creepy Securitron." He sighed and let his head rest back against the stained pillow. "And now I'm a part of something bigger than making sure a simple delivery reaches its destination. All this over a fucking poker chip. Crazy, huh? I don't even know what I'm going to do next. I've got every faction breathing down my back, watching my actions." He looked suddenly tired, sharp eyes weary and half-lidded. "Doesn't help that I'm a fucking idiot and let myself get jumped by a pack of thugs halfway through Freeside, eh? Fuckers only had a knife and some lead pipes and I had a whole arsenal strapped to my back but they still managed to fuck me up. It's embarrassing. God I don't see why anyone wants me to sort their shit out. I'm not even capable of taking care of myself." He gave a sharp bark of laughter, before nearly howling as his ribs seized and complained. "Son of a bitch." His voice was wheezing, breathless as he struggled to sit up again to stare at the horrible pinky-purple bruising around his ribcage.

Arcade, feeling a strange urge to sooth the man in front of him once again, placed a hand on Logan's shoulder, carefully eased him back down. "Relax and it won't hurt as much. I think you've bruised your ribs. And from the sounds of it, your ego too." He gave a small sardonic smile, standing up and giving the blood bag a slight squeeze as he noticed it was nearly empty. "So you waltzed onto the Strip, got your revenge and nearly split your intestines over the street, all in one day. What next for the apparently fearless Courier?" He was beginning to check over Logan's wounds, brushing his fingertips over freshly healed skin with a feather-light touch as he tried to find any possible complications. Last thing they needed was for him to get an infection. Logan was surprisingly quiet, not answering right away but instead watching Arcade's movements with an unreadable expression. It wasn't until Arcade began to remove the needle from his hand that he looked away with a slight grimace and finally muttered, "Fuck if I know. NCR wants me to meet and greet a bunch of nutters with heavy artillery on my own. Caesar wants me to go visit him for a spot of tea. House wants me to raise his army of creepy robots who now have fucking rocket launchers. It's getting stupid what people want me to do. Then again, I helped a bunch of Ghoul's launch themselves into space so I guess at least it can't get any crazier than that."

There was a slight pinch as Arcade slipped the needle point out, pressing a small piece of cloth over the now bleeding pinpoint hole. He gave the Courier an incredulous look, brows almost disappearing into his hairline. "I'm sorry, what?" Seemed to be the best he could respond with to such a thing. House had an army of robots? Caesar wanted to meet him even though it was rumoured he had killed a staggering number of his Legionaries? And what was that about Ghouls in _space_?

It certainly did look like every faction was trying desperately to get him on their side. Then again, he didn't seem to stop moving. He got things done with a determination if the stories were true. And his craziness seemed to make him fearless, so that was a benefit to anyone wanting a fighter. When Logan didn't elaborate, but rather just smiled at Arcade (who was adamant that the expression was worrisome and certainly _not _attractive) and gave a half-hearted shrug, Arcade rolled his eyes and pulled the little cloth away. "And why are you telling me all this?"

There it was. An awkward silence that seemed to come with every conversation they would ever have. Logan wouldn't look at him for a moment, the smile slipping away. When he looked back, his expression was tired, but still rather serious. "I want you to come travelling with me, Arcade."

Briefly Arcade was caught by the way Logan said his name, a soft pronunciation that made it sound...flowing and not sharp like when other's pronounced it. Then he realised just what he had said and leant back slightly, warily. He was a know NCR sympathiser, perhaps not siding with them implicitly but there was a sort of mutual support between this Courier and the Republic. Could he perhaps know about his Enclave roots, be investigating for the army?

No, that was nearly impossible. They hadn't been bothered for years, no one could know. "No offence," he began observing how the other man would react, "but why should I go anywhere with you?"

Logan seemed to ponder this seriously for a while, emotions flittering across his face far too quickly for Arcade to be sure of what they were. Slowly, and rather worryingly, a large grin spread across his face, splitting his lip again but he seemed to pay the fresh blood no heed. "Because, I need a tall, handsome doctor to take care of me in the big, bag Wasteland," he purred and for a brief moment, Arcade was floored. Was...was he flirting? Well now this was...unexpected, certainly. Not unpleasant though. Arcade glanced down at him and swore in his mind as he met that intense gaze he had seen the first time they had met. Damn it, there was no getting away from this was there? He'd regret not taking this opportunity to actually _do_ something. Plus he could feel the tips of his ears heat up. The damned man had made him blush. That rarely happened these days.

With a soft chuckle that sounded more like a sigh, Arcade stepped back around the bed to return to his little chair. "Overt flirtation will get you everywhere with me." He hummed thoughtfully, clasping his hands together and leaning his elbows on his knees. "But on a slightly more serious note, if you're willing to help out with the troubles in Freeside, I'm happy to come with you. Just don't do anything obnoxious like helping out Caesar's Legion, alright?"

The Courier lit up like one of the Vegas' iconic signs, and Arcade felt his ribs constrict around his lungs. What had he just gotten himself into?


	4. Preparation Is Harder Than It Looks

I...I don't know what to say.

Apart from **thank you** ever so much for all the alerts and reviews and favourites! My goodness, you probably haven't a clue just how much I appreciate them. And all the positive reviews, oh my, I'm so happy! Every time I get an email saying 'New Review' I tremble and open it with such apprehension. However, the positivity is just...ah I'm rambling again, but I just want you all to know I really do appreciate it. I really, _really_ do!

Now for a brief apology about how long this has taken to get out. I'll admit I struggled a bit with organising and wording this chapter; its mostly filler but I still wanted Arcade to get a little more exposure to the less wonderful sides of Logan the Courier.

I don't think it helped that I had my Sociology exam. Gee whiz, that thing was such an anti-climatic monster. Spent forever revising the more complex areas and they didn't even turn up! That's the way it goes, though isn't it?

Anyway, the next chapter will be out hopefully a darn sight quicker than this one. I promise action will be forthcoming next chapter. Fiends and Cazadors and Super Mutants, oh my!

* * *

><p>"You don't have to worry about me defecting to the Legion, I can assure you." After a few more minutes of shifting about, Logan flung the covers off and got up onto shaky legs, holding out a hand. He was positively beaming. Arcade, realising he wanted to shake hands, stood as well and took the Courier's hand in a firm grip. "This trip isn't going to be nearly as bad as it has been, now you're on board Arcade, I can already tell." Logan sounded sincere as he shook Arcade's hand, toning down the grin slightly before letting go and beginning to hobble around the tent, looking for his bag. "Our first stop is Jacobstown. Gotta pick Rex up then we can come back here and try to sort some shit out, see if there's anything in Freeside and Westside we can do to make things smoother. Oh and see what we can do about the Followers' supply problem. Ah I also I said I'd do a little side-mission for James Garrett. Gotta get some repairs on my guns too; maybe find some nice armour that doesn't smell like dead raider..." He started mumbling as he rambled on about his plans, finding his bag resting in one of the corners. He was examining his leather armour, tapping lightly against the toughened plates and checking all the buckles and straps. "You got any good armour?"<p>

Arcade had taken a step back to watch him. For someone who had been bleeding out a few hours ago, he was certainly moving well and looking rather chipper. At his question, an image of his family's power armour flashed into his mind, the solid polished metal gathering dust in his little hiding place. He blinked slightly, startled for a brief moment by the image and the shame it brought. It was an almost...hollow feeling. He frowned darkly and shunned the emotion away. "No. I don't particularly need armour when dealing with fruits and chemicals." He realised a second too late that he had snapped, not using a conversational tone but instead one quick and sharp. He never used that tone. Before he could apologise, Logan begun to laugh again, turning around and holding up the modified leather jacket. "Well then you can have my hand-me-downs. I think this'll fit you. You're a bit taller than me, but I have broader shoulders so it's gonna need a bit of fixing. Try it on, will you?"

"Not now." Arcade eyed the armour warily, as if it were concealing a rabid animal inside. It really did smell; like wet dog, blood and poor hygiene. Logan frowned, trying to force the armour into Arcade's arms, eyes taking on a slight pleading look that made Arcade sigh as if he were dealing with petulant child. Really now, was this how their travels were going to turn out? He wasn't coming along as a companion, but more of a care-taker, wasn't he? Deciding to put his foot down, he pushed it back towards the younger man. "You need to rest._ I_ need to rest. We can sort the logistics of our future travels later, once you're no longer hobbling like a little old lady." Persuasiveness hadn't exactly been his strong point but he hoped he'd made his voice firm enough to brook no argument. He had the height to possibly be intimidating, but not the presence nor the personality to live up to such an image.

Logan, for a very brief moment, stared at him with an incredulous look, before laughing cheerfully and nodding. "Alright alright. But you can't go wandering the Wastes with just a lab coat to keep you safe. Flimsy fabric like that isn't going to stop a bullet or a machete. So we're going to find you some armour at some point." He chucked the reinforced leather jacket to the side, and limped back over to the bed, settling down on it. "By the way, I'm not hobbling because I'm weak or anything. Its an old injury. I always limp when I first get up." His tone was slightly defensive as he rolled up the left leg of his slacks, revealing that his left shin was scarred so heavily, that it looked like a deformity. "Scars to the bone. Can't feel a thing on that leg though. Blessing and a curse." He chuckled as he slowly lowered himself back down onto the bed, wincing as his ribs ached again from the change in pressure, fickle things that they were. "Oh well. I'll see you in the morning then. Good night, partner." With a flutter, the blankets settled around his form and soon after he was out cold again, exhaustion claiming him finally.

Arcade had a dozen questions resting at the tip of his tongue, but the doctor in him shut them down, ordered him to let the other man sleep. There'd be plenty of time to interrogate later. For now, he just sighed and settled back into the chair, hands folded on his stomach.

Well that was exhausting and he'd done nothing but stand still. How was he going to keep up when they actually began to get to work?

* * *

><p>Eyes blinking open to sunlight, Arcade woke up with a stiff neck and an even stiffer back. Chairs were not made for sleeping in, why didn't he ever remember that?<p>

With a soft groan, he stood and stretched, the fog of sleep clearing up and the remnants of his meagre dreams fading to give way to the realization that he wasn't dozing at his desk again but still in the surgical tent.

As his gaze roamed the room, worry settled into the pit of his stomach. Logan's bed was empty and his bag gone. There was no evidence the man had even been there apart from bloodstains on the ground. With another groan and a mumble that it was too early for him to be dealing with a missing Courier, he wandered across the empty space and towards his little room with the sole intention of getting some food.

When he opened the door, he was more than a little startled by what he found.

Books. Lots and lots of books, stacked upon each other creating little towers of paperbacks in varying conditions. They were even on the stairs!

"What in the name of Tesla..." Arcade muttered in disbelief as he made his way up to the second floor. He knew he was in the storage cupboard, so it was only natural that he could come in at any time to find an assortment of strange objects cluttering his workspace, but this...this was overkill. Who had that many books? Not that a sudden influx of books was a bad thing but it was just quite the anomaly. And space-consuming. And a little bit frightening, if he were honest.

His boots made a hollow thump echo around the small space as he entered what was essentially his bedroom. There were only a few books here, a new crate in the corner and an ominous bundle of 'something' on his bed. Thank goodness he wasn't actually sleeping in it.

His trepidation faded as he approached his bed and realised the bundle was clothes.

Or, more specifically, armour.

"Of course, the insane man I agreed to travel with. Who else could it be?" Well, the armour was actually rather sensible and if he was honest, thoughtful. It looked like it had been altered a bit, fresh stitching and clean plates of metal and leather mixed with old stained fabric and worn down buckles. It was all folded neatly, laid out so he could identify each piece; the jacket, the shoulder plates, the gloves and the trousers. Next to the armour was a couple of books – The Big Book of Science and a Wasteland Survival Guide – and then next to those a duffel bag, half filled with water bottles and boxes of pre-war food and a small but hefty pouch full of caps.

It could only have been Logan.

Slightly amused, Arcade sat down on his bed and opened a box of Sugar Bombs. Although he wouldn't agree with the product's slogan proclaiming an 'explosive great taste!' they were some of the more decent tasting pre-war food still about. Well, decent was quite an over-statement. It beat Cram, at the very least. Then again, Arcade was sure rat meat beat Cram. That stuff was absolutely vile.

Crunching away on the cereal and thinking about the woes of the population's horribly restricted dietary options, he noticed a corner of paper sticking out of the fold of the leather jacket. Curious, he pulled it out with one hand, the other still rummaging in the cereal box for another handful. Just because it tasted like soiled cardboard wasn't going to stop him from have something in his stomach.

The writing upon the yellowing paper was perhaps what he'd expect of a five-year-old, but then again, he had to remember not everyone out in the Wastes had been taught like he had. It was a bit of a challenge to decode but he understood most of it.

'_Hay Arkade'_ it had begun but the words had been scribbled out and replaced by a slightly neater '_Hay Arcade_'. At least he had gotten his name right the second time around, Arcade thought with a slight smile.

'_I thinck the armor shood fit you, Mick and Ralph helped me fix it. You don't have to wear it all the time, just keep it in the bag, but if you coud try it on before we leev, that would be greet. _

_I'm at the lucky 38, getting my own stuff. Come and meat me when your ready but there is no rush, please don't feel rushed! I've had a cupl' _Here, numerous attempts at what Arcade suspected was the word 'couple' had been scribbled out, until he finally settled for '_a few more stimpacks and Julie said I coud go walking so don't worry! I can handal myself.' _A crude smiley face had been drawn in the margin and Arcade couldn't help but laugh at it. He really was a child in a man's body and it looked like he had really made a serious attempt at the note. He wondered briefly where he had learnt to write; had it been self-taught? It certainly looked like it, the handwriting poorly mimicking the gothic style lettering of most pre-war books.

'_See you later. Make shoore to pack what you need._

_P.S Thought you might like some new books to read._'

Well. Looks like his day was planned out. Pack his bag, enter the infamous Lucky 38 and set off on an adventure to God knows where, doing God knows what with a man of questionable mental health.

Nevertheless, if he were honest, Arcade was starting to feel a little stirring of excitement at the prospect of the future journey. There were numerous possibilities about where they would go, what they would do. He wondered briefly if they'd end up running into any of the Remnants and in a strange way hoped they both would and wouldn't. How could he pretend not to know the people who had become his family after his own parent's deaths? Or could he perhaps make a cover-story? That might be a good idea but getting them to understand what he was doing and play along would be troublesome.

"Ugh I do like to make life difficult for myself, don't I?" He set the cereal box aside and started to inspect the stacks of books. Might as well find something good to take with him to read.

* * *

><p>It was mid-afternoon when Arcade finally emerged from his area of the Mormon Fort, dressed in a fresh set of his Followers' doctor clothes and toting a poorly packed duffle bag. As soon as he slung the straps over his shoulders, he realised that the Courier had pre-packed the food and water in a particular way so that it settled on his back comfortably. Sadly Arcade hadn't packed the rest of his stuff in such a way and now had the corner of a book digging painfully against a shoulder blade and the stiff bulge of the folded armour pressing against the curve of his spine.<p>

He gritted his teeth though and moved through Freeside, determined to meet Logan before rearranging his supplies.

He used his worn passport to get through the gate, stepping onto the Strip with a slight smile. It may have been a time where most people would be turning in from their work to wash and clean up before preparing dinner, but there were still prostitutes dancing suggestively outside Gomorrah, NCR personnel cat calling or vomiting on the street and a shady looking character trying to sell someone a silenced .22. Ah the Strip, where time is just a set of meaningless numbers and booze and humiliation and an air of distrust struck down many a weary traveller, regardless of where their loyalties lay, whether they be NCR soldier or simple civilian, or even perhaps a bored Followers doctor who thought it couldn't hurt to have a little go at Blackjack, because it was all down to logic really, and he had been on fire that night, the crowd was a testament to that, whooping and yelling every time he hit twenty one or got closer to it than the dealer.

That had been a great night, though he still wasn't sure how he had ended up in a room at the Vault 21 hotel, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and a party hat.

He made his way up the steps of the Lucky 38, the fond memory faded and a strange sense of nervousness, dread and irritation welled up inside him. People were staring, whispers starting to move through the gathering crowd.

"What's he doing?"

"Another one is allowed in?"

"A member of the Followers no less."

"Do you think he's in any way related to the Courier?"

"Oh no, you don't think the Courier is sick, do you? Oh that'd be a terrible shame, he's such a dear."

"Look the Securitron is approaching him! Oh man, I hope he knows what he's doing."

"Hey at least if it shoots him, he can bandage himself up, right?"

He shut them out, concentration on staying calm and not fleeing back to the safety of the Old Mormon Fort. The Securitron rolled up to him and he was bewildered to see not the normal scowling cartoon policeman, but instead a cheerful cowboy.

"Well howdy there partner! I'm Victor and you must be the fella ol' Logan is waiting for. Now I'm afraid I gotta ask for your name, for security purposes, obviously."

Well wasn't that a chipper AI. Rather unnerved by the machine in front of him Arcade stated his name with a slight waver in his voice. It took a few seconds and several beeps before the cowboy-bot turned around with a cheerful "Head on up" and the whispers amongst the crowd grew louder and more disbelieving.

"No way it didn't vaporise him!"

"Do you think they're letting anyone in?"

"No way, Mr. New Vegas would've said something if they were, right?"

"I'm going to try!"

There was a sudden commotion as a few people began to rush up the steps, others watching warily from the street. The Securitron, now back to its standard policeman's face started to repeatedly bellow "The Lucky 38 is not open to the general public. Please leave the premises before the use of force is initiated."

Not wanting to get caught up in the potential chaos, Arcade opened the door and dashed inside.

The first thing he noted was that it was dark. And dusty. It was eerie, like he'd gone through a wormhole; a place this quiet, this still couldn't exist on the Strip. It felt like the structure itself was holding its breath, and had been for the past two-hundred years. Up ahead he noticed the creepy cowboy had inhabited another Securitron like some sort of overly happy demon. "This way partner! I've got strict orders to take you up to the Presidential Suite right away."

After being ushered into the little creaky elevator, Arcade took a moment to reflect on the fact that there was no way out now, no going back. The thought wasn't nearly as daunting as he assumed it would be and well, he should be frightened by that. But he wasn't. Could it be that he was actually looking forward to this? To travelling around in the sweltering desert, mingling with NCR and Legion and a whole manner of mutated monsters that roamed the dusty land, all of whom would be happy to kill him without much hesitation?

Perhaps insanity was contagious.

As he ascended each level - rather quickly for something that was creaking as if it were going to fold in on itself at any second - he was fascinated by how many floors there were, the round buttons lighting up just as they had done in pre-war movies he had seen. This place really did stand apart from the rest of the world, a magnificent time capsule. Although it was incredibly dusty, he noted, holding back a sneeze.

He was rubbing furiously at his increasingly irritated nose when the doors dinged open, revealing the brightly lit hallway of the Presidential Suite. Stepping out quickly, Arcade dropped his bag and began to snoop. How could he not? This was the Presidential Suite of the only casino not to have human life in it for hundreds of years. It was only natural it piqued his curiosity.

He found what he assumed was the guest room first, humming in appreciation at the sight of the comfortable looking double beds. Would he be allowed to sleep in one? Goodness he hoped so, just looking at them made his muscles relax. A thought in the back of his mind tried to tell him to go find Logan but the bed was calling to him with its fluffy duvet and plush pillows, and didn't that just look so utterly delightful?

He hit the bed face-down with a soft 'whump' and instantly concluded that there couldn't be anything comfier to lie upon.

"Is that your way of claiming your bed?"

Of course Logan would have to wander in when he was sprawled across a bed grinning like a madman and patting at the duvet as if it were some sort of animal. He was sure there would be more awkward moments in the future to top this, but currently the embarrassment was enough to make him move as if burnt, rolling over and up onto his feet quickly, straightening his glasses and lab coat and clearing his throat. Logan looked far too amused with the situation, bare-chested again and scratching absently at the area of his abdomen below the stitches. "That one is comfier but it creaks, y'know." He ran a hand over his jaw before pointed lazily at the bed and Arcade absently noted that he had shaved the scraggly half-beard off. "The other one is really firm, not squishy at all. No different to sleeping on a bed roll really. Some people prefer that apparently." He gave a one shouldered shrug and turned around to leave.

And Arcade couldn't hold back a gasp. Logan paused, waiting for something else, but Arcade just stared at his back with horrified eyes. "How...how on Earth are you even alive? That's...its, well its not horrible. Okay actually it is, but I don't mean it like that. What I mean is, I've seen some nasty things when training –"

"Arcade..."

"But never anything like this. That level of atrophic scarring can only come as a result of serious, violent, very, very painful, _near life-threatening_ physical trauma, the sort of thing that would make even the most competent of surgeons stall and pale and –"

"Arcade."

"No no, you shouldn't be standing if you received wounds to make something like that. They're so deep, did they touch the bone? They must have, no, there's no way a normal human being could survive something like that – "

"Goddamnit Arcade Gannon, shut up."

His mouth clamped shut and he blinked, startled by that cold, angry tone. It didn't have quite the same threat level as the tone he had used when Arcade had spoken Latin, but it was an obvious warning, a hiss before the snake struck. "I'll explain later. For now, grab a bite to eat, sort that fucking bag out and get ready to leave. I don't piss about; I'll be ready in a few minutes." His clipped words made Arcade feel like a scolded schoolboy; there was a sudden burst of authority, a change in the way he held himself that was frightening not only because it was intimidating, but because the change had occurred so quickly Arcade could have sworn he was a different person.

As Logan stormed out of the guest room and straight into his master bedroom, Arcade fetched his bag with trembling limbs. He was downright scared, every fibre of his instinct screaming at him to haul ass back to the Followers because they were_ safe_. And yet, something held him back - an insatiable curiosity. There was something to this frightening man that tugged at the inquisitive side of his brain, drew it in. He wanted answers, he wanted to know the who, what, where and why of his life and...he wanted to_ help_.

Logan was a formidable man, but with his reputation, people seemed to be viewing him as some sort of invincible, unstoppable force of nature. From what he had heard, no one but Arcade was privy to the cracks in his mind, the wild eyes and unnatural scars, and the child-like actions too. Everyone thought he was perfect and if the world couldn't see the damage, who would fix it?  
>So Arcade had unwillingly burdened himself with this want, this sudden need to help the very scary individual who was stomping around in another room even though he could very well be a psychopath and would end up killing the shaking doctor in his sleep.<p>

From some other room, he could hear the faint mumblings of the radio. "I don't know about you, dear listeners, but to me, the Mojave is beautiful and frightening at the same. You just don't know who you're going to run in to. All I'll say is, try to avoid folks like _Mack the Knife_."  
>Arcade couldn't help but agree as the song began to play and he rearranged his items with all the determination of a fresh-faced new soldier trying to impress his drill instructor. Damnit it, he was going to try his very best to keep things civil. And to avoid getting killed in his sleep.<p>

'_Ya know when that shark bites, with his teeth, babe_

_Scarlet billows start to spread_

_Fancy gloves, though, wears old MacHeath, babe_

_So there's never, never a trace of red'_


	5. Welcome to Jacobstown

I apologise for taking so long again. I wont spew forth some excuses that you don't care about, dear readers, I'll just say that when real life gets rough I forget this wondrous thing called the internet even exists.

Anyway, here's the chapter. I'll try to get another one out when I can.

Thank you all so much for the alerts and faves! They fill me with fizzy joy!

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><p>The sun was setting, sending wisps of rich oranges and yellows swirling across the sky, tainting the clouds and sending warm shadows across the landscape. It was a beautiful sight, but Arcade couldn't enjoy it.<p>

Logan was stomping along the road ahead of him, smoking his sixth cigarette since they had left Freeside, grumbling occasionally in dark tones too quiet and low for Arcade to hear, though he had a feeling he didn't really _want_ to hear them. The tension between them was taut like a bear trap waiting to go off and the result was probably just as deadly. They hadn't been walking long; if the rate of the setting sun was any indication, they'd been outside of Freeside for about half an hour or so, but even so, it felt like they'd been trekking for days. Arcade wasn't sure why the pack resting comfortably against his spine was feeling so goddamned heavy – it hadn't been this heavy when he walked from the Mormon Fort – but it made him drag his feet, boots kicking up sand and dust as they stepped from the dried ground onto broken asphalt. He hadn't walked this far for a while; the most he had gone during his little trips with the Followers was the occasional wander into Westside.  
>He may have been tall, but he wasn't built to carry a load like a pack Brahmin and he was tempted to tell Logan as such; the man had muttered back in the Lucky 38 that Arcade was carrying the food and water supplies and then hadn't spoken to him since. Logan was carrying the bedrolls and a bag of what he assumed was full of weapons, as well as two long, slender packages, wrapped in old sheets and carefully slipped through the straps of the bag so they rested against his lower back. Occasionally they'd slip and he'd push them back into place without even faltering; he'd obviously carried the packages before, whatever they were.<p>

The blue-hued world of twilight was starting to descend upon them; the air feeling electrified as the nocturnal wildlife woke up and began to scavenge for a meal. He could hear the howls of a coyote pack off to their right, the hissing of Geckos echoing down from the cliffs to their left and...the flapping of wings?

"Cazadors, to your left, Arcade!" Gunshot, the soft metallic '_ka-chink'_ of the new bullet sliding into place following after it. "Aim for the wings."

Logan had already dumped the bag to the ground behind him and slung the scoped hunting rifle from his shoulder. He was crouched, one knee on the ground in a stable stance, the rifle raised and held in a secure fashion in still hands. Not even a slight tremble in them from adrenaline; the man was incredibly calm as he lined up his shot and pulled the trigger, no hesitation in his actions.

Arcade however, was far less reserved. His plasma defender had been gathering dust previously, but now that the comfortable weight was back in his hands, it felt like he had last fired the weapon only yesterday. He remembered the old advice from Judah and Johnson when they first decided to give him a weapon; firm, two-handed grip, try to get a steady stance, legs about a shoulder-width apart, stare down the barrel, keep your arms steady and straight, linear. This weapon was quick, and in seconds, Arcade had fired off several shots, taking down a small cazador and injuring a larger one. He felt thrilled despite the fear that was eating at his insides, adrenal glands working over-time to pump him full of that beautiful hormone that made him feel as if he could run a marathon without breaking a sweat. His legs were shaking, his stance off and his palms were slick with sweat, making his grip weaker on his gun but he was still firing shots – perhaps getting a little _too_ trigger happy- and they were keeping the mutated bugs back, away from him, away from Logan. Another adult fell, wings disintegrating into a pile of wonderfully bright green goo, and Arcade felt a little stirring of pride. He'd taken down two cazadors in the space of a few seconds, quite an achievement for someone like him who preferred books to weapons anytime. He assumed Logan would probably expect this from him though, would probably shrug and disregard the fact that this had been the first time he'd actually killed something on his own, defended his own life. It was...well it was a nice feeling. A grin starting to form on his face, he chanced a quick glance over at his travelling companion, expecting to see him finished with killing critters and heading on up the road, still smoking. Instead, he was kicking viciously at a small, young cazador that was fluttering around his ankles, gun held out to his side to help him keep his balance. The bug's stinger had been broken, but the thing seemed resilient, determined not to die, despite the crumpled bodies of its brethren littering the ground around them. Logan was swearing, stamping his feet down, trying his very best to crush the infernal bug under his boot and waving his free arm about like a madman. The whole scene was just...stupid. It was stupid, Arcade decided as he failed to hold in his laughter, especially when Logan managed to land a lucky strike to the bugs head and finally knock it to the ground where he jumped up and down on it like an indignant child, leaving behind nothing but a mess of gooey bug guts and a set of broken wings.

"I hear Julie Farkas call you a saint, but all I see is you stomping on bugs like a belligerent toddler," Arcade spoke with a slight smile, still amused despite Logan's cool glare. "When do we do 'saintly' things? Please don't tell me you've conned me into being your bug exterminator and thats the whole reason you brought me along."

Shrugging his pack back into place, Logan shook his head and sighed, gesturing for Arcade to come closer. "I asked you to join me before I murdered Benny. Surely that must reassure you that you're not a bug-external-whatever." He slid the battered and stained and steadily dwindling packet of cigarettes from his pocket and pulled one out with his teeth and lighting it up. "Sorry for sulking. Shoulda been watching the area. Lots of cazadors out here when it gets dark. Fuckers come of nowhere too, especially the small ones." He scratched at his neck, glancing behind him at the insect's bodies. "Good shooting by the way." Although he wasn't looked at Arcade, it was obvious he meant the compliment, a certain lilt to his tone that showed his sincerity. He removed the pack from his back briefly to retrieve a bottle of sarsaparilla and a bottle of water, holding the water out to Arcade before he got the pack comfortable began to walk again, slowly now, and it was obvious he wanted Arcade walking alongside him instead of behind him this time. "I said I'd explain. And I shall. Ready for a long story?"

Explain? Oh yes, his cold demeanour back at the Lucky 38. And the scars. If Arcade were honest, he hadn't actually been expecting an explanation considering the reaction, but if the other man wanted to tell a story from his past, then he wasn't going to argue, as long as he didn't expect the same from Arcade himself.

"Was a tribal, apparently, before I was a Courier. And before I was a slave. Born in a tent, somewhere out near the Utah, grew up learning to kill things with anything I could find and the few guns we had. We were a nomadic group, followed the roads mostly. Didn't like caves, not like the rest of them. Not to say we avoided them, we just didn't live in them, y'know? Too cramped, too dark. Good for hiding from the rain and gathering fungus and that's about it."

He coughed, a large cloud of smoke wafting from his mouth. There was a slight grimace to his face. "We tattooed to show rank; I apparently had quite a few, if the scarring is anything to go by. Can't remember it all, but the slavers who got me said that tats don't sell because they encourage the merchandise to act like savages and they weren't selling savages, they were selling obedient, working men. So they tore them off. Literally. Didn' even knock me out, the bastards, just pinned me down and pulled out a knife. They had stims though, a stim after so long to stop the bleeding, to stop me from dying. They knew what they were doing." His face was rather calm, his tone conversational as if this wasn't his horrible past he was explaining but just a relaxed observation. Arcade could feel bile burning at the back of his throat, disgust churning his stomach; no human, no creature at all should ever have to go through such a thing. This world was sick and brutal and damnit that was a medical procedure they taught at the Follower's, using half a dose of a stimpack after certain incisions or certain amounts of time if the surgery was going to be long or particularly close. It kept people alive, steady release of medicine, allowed them to bleed out a bit but not enough to kill. Slavers using medical procedures weren't very well-heard of, and it didn't sit right in his mind.  
>"I remember being left convulsing and bleeding on a tiled floor and someone was stroking my hair. His voice is sorta familiar, can't really place it though, can't remember what he was said, but I remember the voice, you know? And then there was so much pain and then...and then the next thing I remember is working in a field with bandages around my neck and mamma shouting at me that the dog had gotten out again so I had to go get him back from Rudy's garden." He frowned, and rubbed a hand over his face, huffing out a mouthful of smoke. "Its all a jumble, disjointed, and trying to think about it gives me a headache. My past has so many gaps in it, big open canyons that I have to leap over. I have chapters in my life, like in a story book though. Tribal chapters and then Slave chapters and then Farmer chapters and then the Courier chapters. And now the...what the hell am I now? I guess I'm...sorta like a mercenary. NCR seem to think I'm their bitch though." A soft sigh let out another swirl of smoke as he turned off to the left, leading Arcade into the enclosed road up towards Jacobstown. His strides were smooth and strong despite the steady increase in gradient, while Arcade had to jog to keep up, feeling the pressure increase on his shins. He was a doctor, not a mountaineer.<p>

"Anyway, I'm sorry for being an ass. I...I don't like people asking about it because I can't really remember much. The memories frighten me though; sends goosebumps up my arms. Don't like them." He mumbled bitterly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his armoured combat pants. "Everything in my mind is a mess. Doc Mitchell sure did a good job of fixing everything up, but sometimes wounds run deeper than a fragmented skull. It ain't all physical. Someone said something 'bout a head doctor call Usanagi, said she'd be good for me, but I dunno. Do I really want to know my past? I guess I do, but now I know I was a slave and a tribal I don't...I don't think I want to know any more than that." He made a disgruntled noise, between a hum and a grunt and subsequently fell silent, flicking the butt of his cigarette to the ground.

Arcade didn't know what to say, or if he should even say anything. The silence wasn't awkward or suffocating anymore, and Logan seemed content enough to continue onwards and leave it at that, but Arcade didn't want him thinking that he didn't care about such an honest little insight into his soul. It was almost touching. Almost.

"Thats...wow." He scratched at the back of his head, thinking carefully about what his next words would be for once. It wasn't exactly his strong suit, thinking before speaking, but hell, he'd prefer to feel awkward than to rile up this man again. "How old were you? When you were..ahem, enslaved?"

Arcade expected a tense silence, but instead Logan shrugged casually. "Dunno, ten? No wait, was I thirteen? Yeah, yeah I was thirteen." He gave a quiet chuckle at the realization, while Arcade grimaced. So young, to go through so much. How the hell has he survived? "I was just learning to scout when they grabbed us. Like I said, we followed the old roads so we were pretty easy to ambush." Suddenly, he seemed to brighten up, a small grin forming as he ran a hand through his hair. "Me n' Caverot – that was my brother – we used to clamber into the old cars and pretend they were magic. The adults would scold us, but heck, we had no idea what those things were; they were so alien and mysterious to us, that we had to play in them. We used to argue about what they were for; I used to think they were like metal Brahmin. Caverot thought they were like giant bullets." His smiled faded slightly, became more strained as the memory slipped away. "I hate when memories come like that. All bright and blinding, like when you open your eyes and it turns out your facing directly at the sun. And then poof. They're gone before I can even comprehend what they were." Gosh he'd looked so pleased a moment ago and now he had the expression of someone who had just seen a baby bighorner eaten by a deathclaw.

"Thats a good thing though." Arcade offered, trying to sound cheerful, trying to bring the mood back up. "That you're remembering, filling in the gaps. If you want to talk, please talk. I'm happy to listen." His smile is genuine now, because that was the truth – he was happy to listen because Logan's past appeared to be something full of horror and drama and incredibly interesting, if he were honest, far more gripping than any book on failed socioeconomic theories.

Logan was quiet for a small while, boots thudding quietly on the ground while a small flock of Bighorners watched them warily from amongst the tress. "Y'know, you remind me of a Mormon who travelled with us for a while, tried to introduce us to religion, help teach the younger generations English. His name was Matt ." He smiled, a quaint little expression that made him look like an innocent schoolboy. "You're both tall and offer to listen. You both have clever eyes too. Matt had a gentle quiet voice though. You...don't have a quiet voice."

"I don't know if I should take offence to that or not." Arcade murmured with a frown which only grew stronger when Logan grinned, white teeth making the expression look fiercer than was intended. Ahead, a small cluster of mantises scuttled towards them, arms raised in an aggressive stance, thought creatures of their size and stature could never really be much of a threat. Logan paid them little attention, pulling out the 9mm that was holstered at his hip, shooting casually at them, but not exactly aiming. It was more like he was trying to scare them off.

"Well, take what you want from it. I never said your voice was neither bad nor loud or anything. Just not quiet, like Matt's was. He was uh...what do you call it...soft-spoken, yeah? Your voice is nice too though." Well angry mutated bugs didn't seem to halter his conversation or his grin. Arcade tried not to look flustered as he shot at the pesky insects trying to hack at his ankles. They weren't nearly as frightening as the cazadors, just troublesome. Like the man ahead of him, who was kicking at a particularly feisty mantis clawing at his shins.

"Well thats flattering, thank you. I can assure you most people would beg to differ. You might agree with them after a while." He replied as the last of the mantises died. Logan had picked up the carcass of one and was currently tearing the forelegs off and made a gesture for Arcade to do the same.

"Doubt it. You know how lonely I've been talking to Rex? Sure he's a good dog, but he doesn't exactly tell the most riveting of stories. Mostly just slobbers on my feet and farts in his sleep." Arcade gave a startled little snort of laughter as he tore the forelegs off another mantis carcass, completely unfazed by the soft crunching noise the action produced. "Hey now, don't laugh about it when we pick him up, you'll make him self-conscious. Don't want a self-conscious robo-dog on our hands now, do we? And you think I'm joking, seriously, that dog understands people, I swear. Muttered about his bad breath once and he sulked and whimpered for a whole two days. In fact thats something you should watch out for – Rex has terrible doggy breath. Likes to wake you up by hovering over your face and just breathing on you. It's kinda horrible if you're not used to it apparently. Boone didn't seem to like it."

"Boone?" Arcade's mouth worked faster than his brain on occasion and seemed intent on harassing him by spurting out things that he'd rather not. Up ahead, he could see the large bodies of the supermutants and felt himself tense, the hand on his Plasma Defender increasing its grip.

"Yeah, this guy I was travelling with a while back. Ex-NCR, First Recon. Strong back, good shooter, didn't like to talk. I've had better conversations with a rock." He sounded bitter, but he face remained neutral and he raised a hand in greeting the mutants on guard. "Left after I got to the strip. Pissed him off, said a few things I probably shouldn't have. Might've groped him when I was drunk too, hoo-boy that was a bad idea. All I know is, I woke up with a hell of a shiner and Boone was gone. Found him later out near Fiend territory, taking pot-shots at anything that came too close. Nearly shot at me too. Never figured out if it was on accident or not." He shrugged as he walked, hands in his pockets and Arcade briefly noticed he was walking just a little closer, should-to-shoulder now. "Don't act so tense around the mutants. Put your gun away, they won't hurt you. They're a darn sight more civilized than most humans out in the Wastes, let me tell you. Can understand why Doctor Henry likes to stay out here." His voice was quiet, a gentle cautious tone like a mother warning a child not to touch fire, but Arcade didn't really notice, more caught up in the name he mentioned. Doctor Henry; could it be their Doctor Henry? He wouldn't be surprised; the man liked his solitude, would love a place like this, away from everyone.

"Howdy, Marcus. Nice evening, isn't it? Not too balmy, but not chilly either." He greeted the Super Mutant like an old friend Arcade realised, as he stepped forward to shake the considerably larger creature's hand. The mutant took care not to crush Logan's hand, barely putting any pressure in his grip at all.

"Greetings Logan. It is pleasant, yes. I see you've brought a human friend along this time." Slightly startled by the clarity with which the mutant spoke, Arcade nodded in greeting, holding out his own hand and introducing himself in what he considered was a rather sociable gesture that hid the unease he felt. But the mutant's touch was gentle and slow, shaking his hand like a gentleman.

"I am Marcus. A friend of the Courier's is a friend of mine. Watch out for Keene though, he's been even more irritable as of late. I'm worried he may try to cause you both trouble. I trust you not to make the situation worse though, Logan."

Logan feigned confusion, looking almost affronted. "I don't know what you're talking about Marcus, Keene and I get along just fine. Why, we're the greatest of friends!" The mutant gave a grunt, and Arcade wasn't quite sure what it meant, but Logan continued past him, patting his bulky arm gently as he did so. "Don't worry about us Marcus. I'll try my very best to avoid confrontation with him."

Once they were a decent distance away, Logan stopped walking and gripped Arcade's forearm, looking at him with a serious expression, brows pulled together. "Just gotta warn you of a few things. Don't stare at the Nightkin. Their schizophrenia is a bit upsetting so they prefer it if you ignore them. Keene is a Nightkin, big motherfucker and he'll probably try to trash talk you like a fucking Fiend would trash talk a Jackal." He rubbed his hands over his face, lingers over his eyes. "Don't be intimidated by Keene, I don't think he'd ever try anything. All posturing, no real threat to him, just don't engage him and you'll be...Grandma!"

"I'll be what?"

But Logan was already jogging ahead and before Arcade could even comprehend what was happening, had been engulfed in a blue mass.

He was hugging a Nightkin. Hugging. A. _Nightkin. _And calling it Grandma.

Well one thing was for sure, this journey wasn't going to be boring in the slightest.

* * *

><p>It was good to see Doctor Henry in good health, even if he wasn't sure of the man. He chatted with Logan quietly in surprisingly technical terms about canine anatomy and behaviour and although Logan seemed to be frowning a lot, Arcade didn't want to impose on the intense conversation the two had gotten in to. Instead he started up a casual conversation of his own with Calamity and was surprised to meet with a revitalised and very energetic Rex. The dog obviously remembered him and began to nose in his pocket again as soon as he padded over. Arcade tried to tell him no, attempted to scold the animal but it just licked his hand and whined, flattening his ears against his head and doing his very best to look pathetic and apologetic. Calamity laughed and told him that the dog was a rascal and had been causing all kinds of problems by fetching anything and everything he could and bringing it back to drop at the doctor's feet.<p>

"Anything he can find, he brings down here. Mostly junk like tin cans and empty soda bottles but occasionally he'll take something from someone and we'll have to apologise and hand it back, which infuriates Doctor Henry. Says it makes us look bad because we can't control a dog. But anytime I catch him doing it, he does that, or rolls onto his side and I can't reprimand him no matter how much I try. He's sly one."

Arcade glanced down at the dog that was currently sniffing his shoes and frowned, slightly, wondering if Logan could control the animal any better or if they'd be constantly apologising to strangers for having a cyber-dog stealing their stuff..

"I honestly can't thank you enough Doctor Henry. You sure you don't want any caps for this? I'm sure it must have been a long operation." Logan and the doctor had finished their conversation, the former now rummaging through his bag and producing a small packet of caps. "I have no qualms with giving payment where payment is deserved."

The good doctor waved his hand in a dismissive manner, both to the men and the payment. "The surgery gave me a welcome break from my research into the Nightkin's paranoia. I'm thankful for that, so please, be on your way."

Humming in mild disapproval, Logan placed the caps back into his pack and shouldered the bag again, how carrying the sheet-wrapped bundles in his arms. "Well, thank you anyway. If I get some time, I'll come back and lend a hand with your research if you need it." He gave a slight nod then started to walk out. Rex cheerfully padded after him, and Arcade lingered for a moment or two, catching Henry's eye. They stared for a moment, before the doctor merely nodded then turned back around to shut off the computer. Arcade smiled, bid farewell to Calamity, then headed off after Logan.

Only he didn't find Logan, but instead a large, pissed off blue brute.

"Another one!" It roared, stepping up in an obvious attempt to intimidate Arcade. Which, if Arcade were perfectly honest, worked wonderfully; he was trying his hardest to fight back tremors of fear. "Pathetic, look, even the taller ones are still so weak. I could crush you...step on you like the insignificant bug you are. You have no _right_ to march around here. No right to even be here, in my presence. What are you even here for? To gawk at us, like the rest of your pathetic species does?" One beefy arm rose, sausage-like fingers curling into a fist. "I _should_ crush you. I shall crush you. Think of it as a lesson in politeness, to respect that some people, some _creatures_ prefer to be left alone."

Arcade's hand shot to his Plasma Defender but before it was even out of its holster, two different growls sounded from either side of him and the Nightkin retreated looking even more irritated, if such a thing were possible. Arcade chanced a glance and smiled slightly to see Logan on his left side, almost shoulder-to-shoulder with him again, Hunting Rifle in his hands and Rex to his right, with what remained of his hackles raised and teeth bared as he continued to growl. He decided then that Logan must have been a ninja in a past life, because he had not seen nor heard the other man approaching once again.

"Logan." The Nightkin spat the name, but didn't move his eyes from the gun aimed at his head.

"Keene. Its delightful to see you again. Have you been keeping well?" Logan's faux friendliness was emphasised by his feral grin as he lowered the gun. Arcade could see the tension across his shoulders though and briefly wondered where the bag had gone. "You certainly look as handsome as the last time we met. Have you done something with your hair?"

With a roar of indignation, Keene's fist swung but the movement was too slow and lumbering; Logan managed to side-step the strike easily. "Cool your jets mister. I ain't gonna hang around. Just collecting my dog. We'll be gone in the morning and you can go back to doing whatever it is you do up here. Knit sweaters or something, I dunno."

Keene looked like he was contemplating going for another swing but instead grunted and turned around. "If you ever come back..."

"You'll grind my bones into dust, mix it with yeast and make a delicious loaf of bread? Yeah yeah, heard it all before. C'mon Arcade, after you. Just go outside, see Lily, she's got our stuff. I've got your back."

Arcade didn't need to be told twice.

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><p>They were staying overnight in one of the old cabins, Marcus assuring them that they'd be undisturbed there. The air was thick with dust and heavy with the musty smell of decades gone by. Logan was limping again, he noted, as he watched the Courier setting everything into neat places. His pack by the door, Arcade's by the broken fridge, his boots by the desk on top of which he rested the bundles that had yet to be uncovered. His hunting rifle was leant against the old fireplace, and he began stripping off the weapons he had equipped, setting them on the curved coffee table in the centre of the room; 9mm pistol, brass knuckles, modified 10mm, a handful of grenades of assorted types; he'd been considerably better equipped than Arcade had first thought.<br>Arcade just allowed himself to collapse on the bed, exhausted mentally and aching a little physically. It had been a steep climb to the ski lodge. "Has Keene always been a human-hating psychopath, or did that just arise after he met you?"

Logan snorted in amusement, unbuckling his belt while Rex jumped up onto the bed to lie next to Arcade, panting happily. "He's a complete douche. If I hadn't promised to Marcus that I'd play nice, I would've shot the ugly fucker in the face. How dare he try to hit you, when you didn't provoke him at all." There was a beat, before he turned around to look at Arcade, hands on his hips, belt undone and pants partially unzipped and for a brief moment Arcade tried to direct his gaze anywhere other than the exposed patch of skin and narrow hips. "You _didn't _provoke him, did you?"

"I didn't even say a single word!" Arcade exclaimed in self-defence, sitting up sharply and causing Rex to raise his head with a soft whuff. "I was following after you and then there he was. I wasn't given a _chance_ to provoke him." Honestly, his mind hadn't even comprehended that he was in possible danger until the arm began to rise. Rex whined and lowered his head to rest over Arcade's hand. The cool touch of his metal lower jaw, caused Arcade to look down at the begging brown eyes and he relented to petting the animal, eliciting a happy response from his tail. "Why didn't he bother you?"

"Probably didn't want to deal with me. I like to be an ass to him, see how far I can push him. Just my presence alone makes his blood pressure sky-rocket." He wriggled his hips until his pants fell, revealing a pair of worn and, well, quite _tight_ boxer shorts and it was only then that it struck Arcade that Logan was undressing, right there, in front of him. So he decided that Rex deserved his full attention because he was such a good dog, isn't he just a lovely dog, even with all his cold metal limbs and exposed brain-in-a-jar and absolutely _vile_ dog-breath.

"You want anything to eat? I can grill the mantis legs we got earlier or uh...I can make something. Need to see what we actually have." There was the soft thump of clothing being discarded and a gentle jangle of something metal shifting against itself, then shuffling footsteps. "Unless you'd just rather sleep, in which case I'll be shoving shitloads of food down your throat tomorrow morning. Gotta make up for all he energy expended getting up here. Son of a bitch." A thunk, something wooden hitting the floor and the thud of a body slumping. Oh he should really look up, shouldn't he? That wasn't exactly the most comforting of sounds.

Logan was leaning against the coffee table, a chair fallen over at his feet. A stained tee covered his chest, which was heaving with each haggard breath. The top half of his combat armour was draped over the chair on the floor, obviously what had caused all the trouble. "Fucking leg. It's like it knows when I'm settling down for the night." He gingerly held his left leg above the ground, the twisted and gnarled skin shadowed in the dim light. Pushing off from the table, he hopped over to the desk and finally unwrapped the two bundles, revealing a well used shovel and an ornate looking walking stick.

"I'm sure you can manage, I mean, you've been managing for so long without me, and I'm not making any attempt to assault your ego when I say this, but I just want to know if you'd like any help."

Logan didn't reply right away; his attention was held by the stick. It was quite exquisite, well-crafted and unique, a rarity in the wastes. The head of a raven had been carved as the handle from what could only be bone; the pale head polished to a perfect shine. Logan smiled fondly at it, then promptly turned around and hobbled over to his pack. "Thanks for thinking about my feelings there, but like you said, I can manage. If you do want to help, you can get some water from the pack, make yourself some food, whatever. Just.." He shrugged, pulling a set of ratty, torn cargo shorts from the bag. "Just make yourself comfortable. I'll sleep on the floor, on the bedroll since I'm used to sleeping rough. You can have the bed, but I'm afraid that also means you get Rex, the patented doggy alarm clock."

Arcade did just that, finishing off the box of Sugar Bombs he'd started earlier before retreating back to the dusty bed. He shed his coat and boots and tried his very best to get comfy on a 200 year old mattress with a dog taking up half the bed.  
>Logan settled much easier, sat on the bed roll with a sheet draped over his legs, munching on an apple. "We'll be taking the long way back tomorrow. I want to make a couple of stops, run a few errands. I'm planning on slipping through the edges of Fiend territory so you'll want to get your armour on in the morning." He sighed, chucking the core to the side. "Sleep well Doctor Gannon; a whole new world of chaos awaits you tomorrow!" And with that he switch the Pip-Boy light off and lay down to sleep.<p>

Needless to say, Arcade remained awake, staring at the ceiling with wide eyes. Why a world of chaos? Why not one of relaxation and harmless journeys through welcoming lands? He rolled over, hoping to find a comfier position that would help sooth his mind but only received a waft of doggy breath.

It was going to be a long night.


End file.
